Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (56 page)

‘Company on parade. Sir!’

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

Sharpe walked to the front of the company, his back to the trees and to the crowd of spectators drawn from the Battalion’s women mixed with men from the other companies who had come over the wall from the yard.

‘We’re going on parade early.’ They didn’t move. Their eyes stared rigidly in front of them. ‘The six men detailed for punishment one step forward.’

There was a fractional hesitation. The six men, three Riflemen and three from the original Light Company, looked left and right but took the pace. There was a murmur in the ranks.

‘Quiet!’

The men went silent but from behind, from the orchard, a group of women began shouting insults and encouraging their men not to give up the protest. Sharpe spun round.

‘Hold your tongues! Women can be flogged too!’

He marched the company to the market square and moved the footballers reluctantly from the thin turf. The six men to be flogged stood in the front rank wearing only their trousers and shirts. They went easily enough. Sharpe could tell from their faces that they were relieved that he had taken them over and forced them onto parade. Whatever hot words had been spoken in the burning Spanish afternoon Sharpe knew that no man really wanted to go through the hopeless business of taking on the full authority of the army. That sounded simple, he thought, and now he had to persuade nine other companies. He walked close to the six men in the front rank and looked hard at them.

‘I know it’s unfair.’ He spoke quietly. ‘You didn’t make the noise this morning.’ He stopped. He was not sure what he wanted to say, and to go further would be to sound too sympathetic to their protest. Gataker, one of the unlucky Riflemen, grinned cheerfully.

‘It’s all right, sir. It’s not your fault. And we’ve bribed the drummer boys.’

Sharpe smiled back. The bribe would be of little use, Simmerson would make sure of that, but he was grateful for Gataker’s words. He stepped back five paces and raised his voice.

‘Wait here! If any man moves he’ll replace one of these six men!’

He walked over the turf towards the double gates of the timber yard. He had never really worried about his own men, knew that they would follow him, but as he paced towards the shut gates he wondered what trouble was brewing inside. And, more importantly, what trouble was being brewed behind the slab-like walls of the castle. He felt for his sword hilt and walked on.

‘Sir! Captain! Sir!’

Ensign Denny was running towards him, sword trailing, his face streaming with sweat. ‘Sir?’

‘What did you find out?’

‘Colonel’s at the castle, sir. I think he’s with the General. I met Captain Leroy and Major Forrest. Captain Leroy asked you to wait for him.’

Over Denny’s shoulder Sharpe saw Leroy, on his horse, coming from the steep streets that led to the castle. The American, thank God, was not hurrying. He walked his horse as though there were no emergency; if the men in the timber yard saw panic and worry among the officers they would think they were winning and merely become more obstinate.

Leroy’s horse almost sauntered the last few yards. The American nodded at Sharpe, took his hands off the reins, and lit a long black cheroot. ‘Sharpe.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Leroy.’

Leroy slid off the horse and looked at Denny. ‘You ride a horse, young man?’

‘Oh yes, sir!’

‘Well climb up on that one and keep her quiet for me. Here you are.’ Leroy cupped his hands and heaved the Ensign into the saddle.

‘Wait for us at the company,’ Sharpe said.

Denny rode away. Leroy turned to Sharpe. ‘There’s bloody panic upstairs. Simmerson’s turned green and is shrieking for the artillery, Daddy Hill’s telling him to calm down.’

‘You were up there?’

Leroy nodded. ‘Met Sterritt. He’s giving birth to kittens, thinks it’s all his fault because he’s officer of the day. Simmerson’s screaming mutiny. What’s happening?’

They walked on towards the timber yard. Sharpe refused the offer of a cheroot. ‘They’ve said they won’t go on parade. But no-one’s actually ordered them to yet. My lads went easy enough. As I see it we’ve got to get the rest out there fast.’

Leroy blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. ‘Simmerson’s getting the cavalry.’

‘What?’

‘Daddy didn’t have much choice, did he? Colonel comes to him and says the troops are mutineers. So the General’s ordered the KGL down here. They’ll be some time, though; they weren’t even saddled up.’

The King’s German Legion. They were the best cavalry in Wellesley’s army: fast, efficient, brave, and a good choice to break up a mutiny. Sharpe dreaded the thought of the German horsemen clearing out the timber yard with their sabres.

‘Where’s Forrest?’

Leroy gestured at the castle. ‘He’s coming down here. He went to look for the Sergeant Major. I don’t think he’ll wait for Sir Henry and his heavies.’ Leroy grinned. They were at the gates, which were ajar. Harper had spoken of barricades but Sharpe could see none. Leroy gestured to him. ‘Go ahead, Sharpe. I’ll let you do the talking. They think you’re some kind of a bloody miracle worker.’

His first impression was of a yard full of men lying, standing, sitting, their weapons piled, their jackets and equipment discarded. There was a fire burning in the centre of the yard, which struck him as odd because of the heat of the day, and then he remembered the extra triangles which Simmerson had ordered for the mass flogging. The Colonel must have ordered the work done at this yard, and the men had burned the timber which had been crudely nailed together ready for the punishments. There was a momentary hush as the two officers came through the gate, followed by a buzz of excited talk. Leroy leaned against the entrance; Sharpe walked slowly through the groups of men, heading for the fire, which seemed to be the focus of the yard. The men were drinking, some already drunk, and as Sharpe walked slowly through the muttered comments and hostile looks, a man ironically offered him a bottle. Sharpe ignored it, knocked the man’s arm with his knee as he walked past, and heard the bottle break on the ground. He came to the space in front of the fire, and as he turned to face the bulk of the men the muttering died down. He guessed there was not much fight in them, no ringleader had protested, there had only been sullen muttering.

‘Sergeants!’

No-one moved. There had to be Sergeants in the yard. He shouted again.

‘Sergeants! On the double! Here!’

Still no-one moved, but in the corner of his eye he had the impression of a group of men, in shirts and trousers, stir uneasily. He pointed at them.

‘Come on. Hurry! Put your equipment on!’

They hesitated. For a moment he wondered if the Sergeants were the ringleaders but then realised that they were probably afraid of the men. But they picked up jackets and belts. There was some shouting at them but no-one made a move to stop them. Sharpe began to relax.

‘No!’ A man stood up to the left. There was a hush, all movement stopped; the Sergeants looked at the man who had spoken. He was a big man with an intelligent face. He turned to the men in the yard and spoke in a reasonable voice.

‘We’re not going. We decided that and we must keep to it!’ His voice, like the dead Ibbotson’s, was educated. He turned to Sharpe. ‘The Sergeants can go, sir, but we’re not. It isn’t fair.’

Sharpe ignored him. This was not the time to discuss whether Simmerson’s discipline was fair or unfair. Discipline, at moments like this, was not open to discussion. It existed, and that was that. He turned back to the Sergeants.

‘Come on! Move yourselves!’

The Sergeants, a dozen of them, came sheepishly to the fire. Sharpe was suddenly aware of the scorching heat of the blaze; added to the sun it was breaking his back into a prickly sweat. The Sergeants shuffled to a halt. Sharpe spoke loudly. ‘You’ve got two minutes. I want everyone on parade, in this yard, properly dressed. The men to be flogged wearing shirts and trousers only. Grenadier Company by the gate, the rest formed on them. Move!’

They hesitated. Sharpe took a step towards them and they suddenly snapped into action. He turned and walked into the crowded men. ‘On your feet! You’re on parade! Hurry up!’

The burly man tried one last protest, and Sharpe whipped round on him. ‘You want more bloody executions? Move!’

It was all over. Some of the drunker men needed kicking onto their feet but the little fight had gone out of them. Leroy joined Sharpe and, with the Sergeants, they dressed the companies. The men looked a mess. Their uniforms were unbrushed, spotted with sawdust, their belts stained and muskets dirty. Some of the men were pale with drink. Sharpe had rarely seen a Battalion in worse parade order, but that was better than a mutinous rabble being chased by the efficient German cavalry.

Leroy swung open the gates, Sharpe gave the order, and the Battalion marched out in formation to line up on the Light Company. Forrest was outside. His mouth dropped as the First company emerged. He had a handful of officers and other Sergeants with him, and they ran to their companies and shouted orders. The Battalion began to march crisply; the Sergeant Major hammered them into place, stood them at ease, stood the ranks easy. Sharpe marched up to Forrest’s horse, snapped to attention, and saluted.

‘Battalion on parade, sir!’

Forrest looked down on him. ‘What happened?’

‘Happened, sir? Nothing.’

‘But I was told they refused to parade.’

Sharpe pointed at the Battalion. The men were pulling their uniforms into shape, brushing the worst dirt off their jackets, punching their shakoes into shape. Forrest stared at them and back to Sharpe. ‘He’s not going to like this.’

‘The Colonel, sir?’

Forrest grinned. ‘He’s coming here with the cavalry, Sharpe. And General Hill.’ Forrest checked his grin; it was unseemly, but Sharpe understood his amusement. Simmerson would be furious; he had disturbed a General, roused a Regiment of cavalry, and all for a mutiny that had not happened. The thought pleased Sharpe.

The Battalion stood in the heat, the bells in the town marked five o’clock and quarter past; they dusted their uniforms as well as they could. Perhaps half the officers were present, they dribbled in from the town, but the rest were with Simmerson. As the clock struck the half hour there was the thunder of hooves, a cloud of dust, and in a display of force calculated to demoralise the supposedly mutinying troops the blue-uniformed Dragoons of the King’s German Legion galloped onto the market square. They were splendidly turned out in their blue jackets, fur-trimmed pelisses and, on their heads, brown fur colbacks. Their sabres were drawn and they rode straight for the timber yard. Slowly it dawned on them that it was empty and that the heads they had been sent to break were on parade. Orders were shouted, horses turned, the cavalry subsided into an embarrassed silence and watched the gaggle of redcoated horsemen follow them onto the market place: Colonel Sir Henry Simmerson with Major General Rowland Hill, aides de camp, officers of the Battalion like Gibbons and Berry, and behind them a gaggle of other mounted officers who had come to see the excitement. They all stopped and stared. Simmerson peered into the timber yard, looked back at the parade, and then once more into the yard. The Sergeant Major took his cue from Forrest.

‘’Talion! ’Shun!’

The Battalion of Detachments snapped to attention. The Sergeant Major filled his chest.

‘’Talion! Shoulder arms!’

The three movements were perfectly timed. There was only the sound of six hundred palms slapping six hundred muskets in unison.

‘’Talion will make the General Salute!’ There was a General present. ‘Present arms!’

Sharpe swept his sword into the salute. Behind him the companies slammed the ground with their feet, the muskets dipped in glorious precision, the parade quivered with pride. ‘Daddy’ Hill saluted back. The Sergeant Major shouldered the Battalion’s arms, ordered them, and stood the men at ease. Sharpe watched Forrest ride his horse to Simmerson and salute. He could see gesticulations but could hear nothing. Hill seemed to be asking the questions and Sharpe saw Forrest turn in his saddle and point in the direction of the Light Company. The pointed arm turned into a beckoning one. ‘Captain Sharpe!’

Sharpe marched across the parade ground as though he were the Regimental Sergeant Major on a Royal parade. Damn Simmerson. He might as well have his face rubbed in the dirt. He cracked to a halt, saluted, and waited. Hill looked down on him, his round face shadowed by his large cocked hat.

‘Captain Sharpe?’

‘Sir!’

‘You paraded the Battalion? Is that correct?’

‘Sir!’ Sharpe had learned as a Sergeant that repeating the word ‘sir’ with enough fore and precision could get a man through most meetings with senior officers. Hill realised it too. He looked at his watch and then back at Sharpe. ‘The parade is thirty minutes early. Why?’

‘The men seemed bored, sir. I thought some drill would do them good, so Captain Leroy and myself brought them out.’

Hill smiled; he liked the answer. He looked at the ranks standing immobile in the sunlight. ‘Tell me, Captain, did anyone refuse to parade?’

‘Refuse, sir?’ Sharpe sounded surprised. ‘No, sir.’

Hill looked at him keenly. ‘Not one man, Captain?’

‘No, sir. Not one man.’ Sharpe dared not look at Simmerson. Once more the Colonel was looking foolish. He had cried ‘mutiny’ to a General of Division only to find that a junior Captain had paraded the men. Sharpe sensed Simmerson shifting uneasily on his saddle as Hill looked down shrewdly. ‘You surprise me, Captain.’

‘Surprise, sir?’

Hill smiled. He had dealt with enough Sergeants in his life to know the game Sharpe was playing. ‘Yes, Captain. You see your Colonel received a letter saying that the men were refusing to parade. That’s called mutiny.’

Sharpe turned innocent eyes on Simmerson. ‘A letter, sir? Refusing to parade?’ Simmerson glared at him; he would have killed Sharpe on the spot if he had dared. Sharpe looked back to Hill and let his expression change from innocent surprise to slow dawning of awareness. ‘I think that must be a prank, sir. You know how playful the lads get when they’re ready for battle.’

Hill laughed. He’d been beaten by enough Sergeants to know when to stop playing the game. ‘Good! Well, what a to-do about nothing! Today seems to be the South Essex’s day! This is the second parade I’ve attended in twelve hours. I think it’s time I inspected your men, Sir Henry.’ Simmerson said nothing. Hill turned back to Sharpe. ‘Thank you, Captain. 95th, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve heard of you, haven’t I? Sharpe. Let me think.’ He peered down at the Rifleman then snapped his fingers. ‘Of course! I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Sharpe! Did you know the Rifles are on their way back?’

Sharpe felt his heart leap in excitement. ‘Here, sir?’

‘They might even be in Lisbon by now. Can’t manage without the Rifles, eh, Simmerson?’ There was no reply. ‘Which Battalion are you, Sharpe?’

‘Second, sir.’

‘You’ll be disappointed, then. The first are coming. Still, it’ll be good to see old friends again, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hill seemed genuinely happy to be chatting away. Over the General’s shoulder Sharpe caught a glimpse of Gibbons sitting disconsolate on his horse. The General slapped away a fly. ‘What do they say about the Rifles, eh Captain?’

‘First on the field and last off it, sir.’

Hill nodded. ‘That’s the spirit! So you’re attached to the South Essex, are you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re in my division, Sharpe, very glad. Carry on!’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He saluted, about turned, and marched back towards the Light Company. As he went he heard Hill call out to the cavalry’s commanding officer. ‘You can go home! No business today!’

The General walked his horse down the ranks of the Battalion and talked affably with the men. Sharpe had heard much about ‘Daddy’ Hill and understood now why he had been given the nickname. The General had the knack of making every man think that he was cared for, seemed genuinely concerned about them, wanted them to be happy. There was no way in which he could not have seen the state of the Battalion. Even allowing for three weeks’ marching and the fight at the bridge, the men looked hastily turned out and sloppily dressed, but Hill turned a blind eye. When he reached the Light Company he nodded familiarly to Sharpe, joked about Harper’s height, made the men laugh. He left the company grinning and rode with Simmerson and his entourage to the centre of the parade ground.

‘You’ve been bad lads! I was disappointed in you this morning!’ He spoke slowly and distinctly so that the flank companies, like Sharpe’s, could hear him clearly. ‘You deserve the punishment that Sir Henry ordered!’ He paused. ‘But really you’ve done very well this afternoon! Early on parade!’ There was a rustle of laughter in the ranks. ‘You seem very keen to get your punishment!’ The laughter died. ‘Well, you’re going to be disappointed. Because of your behaviour this afternoon Sir Henry has asked me to cancel the punishment parade. I don’t think I agree with him but I’m going to let him have his way. So there will be no floggings.’ There was a sigh of relief. Hill took another deep breath. ‘Tomorrow we march with our Spanish allies towards the French! We’re going to Talavera and there’s going to be a battle! I’m proud to have you in my division. Together we’re going to show the French just what being a soldier means!’ He waved a benign hand at them. ‘Good luck, lads, good luck!’